


Make It Small So It Fits

by taylor_tut



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Chronic Pain, Delirium, Gen, Hallucinations, Hospitals, Infection, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Has EDS | Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, Panic, Sick Character, Sick Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sickfic, Strained Friendships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:41:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27517048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylor_tut/pseuds/taylor_tut
Summary: A combination of pain, infection, and Not!Sasha paranoia cause Jon to have an episode of delirium at the Institute. The others do their best, but not before panicking a lot
Comments: 8
Kudos: 189





	Make It Small So It Fits

“If Jon knew we were drawing straws to decide who had to go into his office to bring him paperwork, I think it would hurt his feelings,” Martin frets, drawing a straw from Sasha’s hand regardless. 

“Oh, so you’re volunteering, then?” Tim asks, and Martin pales. 

“I didn’t say that!”    
“If Jon doesn’t want us to dread going into his office, then he should be less terrifying when we visit,” she argues. “When I went in earlier, he didn’t even say anything. I said good morning, and he just… blinked at me. No words; totally ignored me. It was eerie.” 

“Same when I saw him in the break room making tea,” Tim adds. “He totally ignored me talking to him. My life flashed before my eyes when he stood up and left.” 

Martin frowns. “Do you think he’s stopped sleeping again?” he asks. “He read another… buggy, I guess, statement a few days ago, and you know how those get to him…”

Sasha shrugs. “Possible,” she admits, “but judging by my straw, I don’t think I have to ask him.” 

“Cheater!” Tim accuses, rushing to compare his straw to Martin’s and cursing at the result. “I’m not asking if he’s sleeping. I’m just going to give him the follow-up folders and run.” 

“Don’t be too obvious,” Martin warns. “We don’t want him to think we’re avoiding him.” 

“Even though we are.” 

“I’ll be like a 17th century maid,” Tim swears, “and act as if my continued employment here hinges on the fact that I’m neither seen nor heard by the master of the house.”

“Good luck!” Sasha giggles, waving goodbye like it might be the last time she ever sees him. Martin sets to work making tea, likely to celebrate his safe return, and Tim takes a moment to shift out of the fun, jovial tone he’d been sharing with the other assistants and into the reserved, stoic one he’s going to have to put on if he doesn’t want Jon to bite his head off. 

He debates knocking on Jon’s door before entering, but decides that ultimately, it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission, especially because Jon considers the knocking just as much of an interruption as the actual conversation, so he might as well not piss him off twice. 

When Tim opens the door, he’s surprised at what he finds. Rather than organizing files or recording a statement, Jon appears to be just… sitting there. A few folders are open on his desk, but none of them appear to be connected in any way (Tim knows because he’s done so much follow-up work for all of them that he can tell just by the attachments which is which), and all are open to seemingly random pages. The rest of the office is unusually messy, too--drawers left open, papers on the ground from where it looks like they fell and were not retrieved, Jon’s cane resting against the desk rather than the door, meaning that he’s using it even across the length of his office, his thermos on the ground, having been knocked off the table and rolled to the door where it now sits next to Tim’s feet. 

“Woah, Boss,” he almost laughs, “did a bomb go off in here?” 

Worryingly, Jon startles like he hadn’t even noticed Tim until this moment. 

“I--no, it--I’m just…” he pauses, takes a deep breath. “Did you need something?” he asks in his best impression of his usual, impatient tone, but it falls short and lands somewhere between tired and distant. 

Tim is torn. He knows that he should press this, but on the other hand, if something is this clearly wrong, then there’s no way Jon will talk about it. Weighing his choices, he decides that the best option is to make an assumption so wildly wrong that Jon has no choice but to correct him. 

“Jon, be honest with me,” he says sternly. “Should we be worried? Did you find more worms or something?” 

Jon’s face, surprisingly, falls, and his distracted gaze suddenly and entirely focuses on Tim. 

“God, no; I’m--I would never hide something like that--you know I’d tell you. You know that, right?” 

Tim startles a little, because THAT is not the reaction he’d expected. Obviously, he’d expected the dismissal, but he’d anticipated it with an irritable eye roll, not some heartfelt, borderline hurt plea. 

“I,” he stalls, “I know. I do. Of course.” Because he does; he knows. For all his strange suspicions as of late, Jon is on their side. He has to believe that. “But you can’t just expect us to blindly trust you, Boss. You’ve got to let us in sometimes.”

Jon nods fervently, unnervingly. “Right. I can do that.” 

“Like, right now, for instance, might be a good place to start,” Tim says. “Why does this place look like a tornado hit it?” 

Jon runs a hand through his hair sheepishly. “I’m not… not hiding anything serious,” he admits, his voice low and embarrassed. “Keep this between us?” Tim nods. “I seem to have misplaced a stack of statement folders,” he says, “and I’m going crazy looking for it.” 

“So you turned your office inside out?” 

“Got a bit frustrated,” he mutters, sounding like he might be speaking more to himself than Tim. “I’ve got a splitting headache and lost patience. My joints are—ah, I just had to sit for a while. I’ll put it all away before I clock out tonight.” 

Tim frowns. Does he believe that? The idea that Jon, his boss, Jon, could have misplaced a stack of files? 

On the other hand, what does it say about his relationship with Jon, his friend, Jon, that he’s more inclined to believe he’s covering up working for the Dark Side than that he might just be having a headache and a bad day? 

“Well, if you need help, you know where to find us,” Tim says, setting the files he’s brought down and leaving Jon to continue whatever nonsensical work he’s pouring himself into at his desk. It’s probably better to just stay out of it. 

Two hours later, Jon is no longer able to even pretend to keep working on anything. He’s not sure what he’d even gotten done in the first half of the day--possibly nothing, if he’s being honest--and he’s beyond caring. 

The headache he’s been trying his best to keep at bay with coffee (he can hear Martin’s voice in his ear scolding him about drinking anything but water or tea when he’s not feeling well, but the caffeine usually helps take the edge off) is throbbing worse than this morning, and the pain in his hips, his legs, his right arm--anywhere the worms touched, really, is so intense that he’s shaking. Jon had thought he had bad joint pain before all this mess; even used a cane or a wheelchair when it got really unbearable, but it hardly even begins to compare to the deep-set, pulsing, relentless ache radiating like poison seemingly out of every worm scar. Over and over, he finds his mind attempting to rationalize it in horrific, unwanted visuals that play before his mind: hands clawing and tearing their way out of his legs; wasps stinging their way inside him to make a nest of his bones; eyes opening, raw and tender, over every inch of his skin. 

Something is wrong. Someone has poisoned him; he just knows it. Perhaps that’s why he’s been feeling so much foreboding lately, why he’s got the distinct impression that someone in their midst is a traitor. They killed Gertrude, and now, they’ve made their move on Jon. 

And it’s going to work, too, he thinks as he feels another bead of sweat roll down his back, because he’s too ill to move by himself, and he can’t ask any of his assistants to take him to the hospital because there’s a 1 in 3 chance they’ll just lock the door and watch him die, slowly, painfully. The idea of Sasha: sweet, wonderful Sasha, who would be his first choice to text, anyway, just sitting down on his desk, smiling while Jon takes his final breaths: well. He’d rather fold on 2:3 odds than have to live through that. 

Frantically, he takes out a pen and paper and starts to write a note. His handwriting is shaky, near illegible, and he’s not sure whether it’s sweat or tears or both that are dripping onto the paper, but he writes, frantically and passionately, in an effort to warn the others. About the danger, about the Watching; tries to really drive home just how imperative it is that they all get out now. 

_ This place will kill you. Do whatever you have to. Just run.  _

He hears a knock on his door and he knows he’s done for. 

“Jon,” Tim calls, “I just got an email from a statement giver asking if you’re free to meet tomorrow. What should I tell her?” 

Jon blinks his eyes open and realizes that he’d fallen asleep (or, rather, unconscious) on the palm of his hand, elbow braced against the wall for support. 

Tim asked a question. Jon had heard it. It didn’t even seem like a complex question, so why can’t he figure how to reply?

“Jon?” Tim presses, taking another step into his office. No, no; this is bad: don’t let him see the weakness. Tim’s been so cross with him lately. It wouldn’t be too much of a leap to suppose he might try to kill him, would it? “Are you going to answer?” 

What was the question?

“Hm?” Jon asks, he hopes, conversationally. He thinks he might have missed the mark when Tim’s face falls in concern. 

Tim commits to entering his office, now, and Jon feels his stomach sink in dread. All at once, the corners of his office turn dark, writhing, alive. His eyes go wide, and he shoots to his feet, much to Tim’s alarm. 

“Jon!” he calls, clearly not understanding. “What’s wrong?”

How can’t he see what Jon sees? Or perhaps he knows something—something Jon doesn’t—he doesn’t have time to pick apart these questions, because before he can process anything else, the swirling, light feeling in his head spreads down the rest of his body, robbing him of the feeling in his fingers and toes before taking his hearing to a loud ringing. 

“Tim, run,” he commands before his vision turns black and he collapses. 

Tim leans against the doorway of Jon’s office, not willing to risk going all the way inside. “Jon,” he calls when Jon doesn’t look up immediately, frowning when even the calling of his name doesn’t get a response. It looks like he’s asleep, but that’s impossible, because it’s JON, so he must just be thinking and making a point to ignore the interruption. “I just got an email from a statement giver asking if you’re free to meet tomorrow. What should I tell her?” 

Jon opens his eyes, blinking hard. Something is off. 

“Jon?” he calls again. Perhaps he had been napping, hadn’t heard the question. “Are you going to answer?” 

“Hm?” Jon hums, sounding desperately confused. Damn it. Tim takes a step into the office, watching as Jon’s eyes dart around the room, wide and horrified. He should get Sasha; she’d know what to do. Or Martin, who would be able to help him figure out what’s wrong. Hell, even Elias, as much of a prick as he could be, would at least do Jon the courtesy of not letting him completely lose his mind at work. 

Jon scrambles to his feet, startled and clumsy, and Tim can’t help but shout. 

“Jon! What’s wrong?” His eyes are everywhere, darting from corner to corner without any clarity, before they focus on Tim so intensely that it makes him feel cold. 

“Tim,” he pleads, “run.” 

And he’s unconscious, his head clipping the corner of his desk before Tim has the chance to slow his fall. 

“Oh, shit--Sasha! Martin!” 

The two sprint to Jon’s office to where Tim has tipped Jon onto his back, holding his head in his lap. Blood is smeared across Tim’s light pink dress pants and his fingers are pressed to Jon’s pulse point in his wrist, his face set in an expression of angry panic. 

“What happened?” Martin demands. 

“He collapsed,” Tim snaps. “He was--I don’t know, seeing things, I guess, couldn’t make out what he was saying, really--and then he went down. Hit his head on the desk pretty hard.” 

Sasha nods. “I’m calling 999,” she announces. “I’ll wait for them outside and guide them in. Text if something changes.” 

Martin mutters some agreement, then crosses the room to sit beside Tim. “His pulse is racing,” Tim frets. “But this--this can’t be some kind of panic attack, can it?” 

Martin shrugs. “I-I don’t know,” he stutters. “I wouldn’t think so? But he’s been agitated…” 

“It’s Jon,” Tim deadpans. “When the hell is he not agitated?” 

“More so today,” Martin maintains. “It’s seemed like something was upsetting him. Did he say anything to you?” 

Tim racks his brain for a long moment before dredging up their conversation from this afternoon. “He complained about a headache.” When his own words sink in, he goes pale. “I should have known something was wrong right then; Jesus. Jon never complains to another human being; we always have to just hear about it from the tapes. So, what is it—an aneurysm? Meningitis?”

“Tim, calm down,” Martin scolds, and Tim cannot believe Martin is the one giving him that instruction. The tables always seem to turn just when he least expects them to. “Panicking won’t do any good.” 

Tim forces a deep breath. “I know,” he admits. “I know. He was just… so completely out of it. And he was clearly in pain before. In all the years I’ve known Jon, I’ve never seen him like that.” 

Whatever Martin is planning to say, calming or otherwise, is interrupted by noise from the hallway. Sasha is leading the paramedics down the hall and toward Jon’s office. 

The rest of the day after Jon is carted away via ambulance, despite the fact that just over two hours remain before they’re free, passes slowly. None of the assistants want to talk about it, because what will that change? Yet, doesn’t it feel callous to talk about anything else? 

Tim hopes that Elias might let them go early, or at least let Tim leave--he’s Jon’s emergency contact, after all, and if this isn’t an emergency, Tim isn’t sure what is. 

He has no such luck, however. Predictable. Instead, he buries himself in work, hardly concentrating on any of it, until the clock strikes five and the three of them are free. 

They go together, piling into Tim’s car without deliberation and rushing straight to the hospital to ask after Jon. 

Martin takes the lead as soon as they’re through the doors. The way he heads straight to the front desk and asks for the room number, denies needing directions and leads the group to the room the desk attendant had given without even looking at the arrows on the walls: it’s like watching him hold a conversation in a language Tim hadn’t known he could speak. 

Right outside the door, Martin hesitates before knocking. 

“Maybe we should have texted and said we were coming,” he says. “Jon might be… I’m not sure if he’ll be up for visitors.” 

“If he doesn’t want us here, we’ll leave right away,” Tim promises. “But I. I would just feel better seeing him.” 

He expects Sasha’s hand on his back to reassure him, or for her to reach out and squeeze his hand to offer her support. It doesn’t happen. Damn it. None of them are the way they used to be, are they?

“Okay. He--he was in a pretty bad way. He might not be awake, or, or, lucid. It’s only been a few hours, after all.” 

Tim sighs--the way Martin is talking to him is annoyingly reminiscent of the way his mother had prepared him to see his great aunt for the last time, and it’s upsetting him more than it’s putting him at ease. “I know he’s not well,” he admits. “Seriously. I’m not going to panic again. I just want to see him.” 

Martin and Sasha exchange a worried look, but eventually, Martin nods, then knocks on the door, opening it just a crack in order to hear. 

“Jon?” he calls quietly. “Are you awake?”

“Martin?” Jon’s voice, clear if a bit weak, replies. 

“Yes!” Martin exclaims, excited by the recognition that wasn’t there earlier. “Yes, it’s me, Tim, and Sasha. Are you up for a visit?” 

“Come in, yes.” 

Jon looks better than Tim had expected. Even washed out by the hospital gown and white sheets, the color of his face is better, and though his expression is still cloudy, it’s much more comfortable now, so Tim can assume that’s more from medication than it is anything else. 

“How are you feeling?” Martin asks. 

“I’m--doing much better, now. Thank you.” 

Tim scrutinizes for a moment to decide whether he believes him. “You scared the life out of us,” he says. Jon averts his eyes, picking at the edges of the tape around the IV in his hand. 

“I apologize for that,” he says, genuine and embarrassed and small. “I never would have come in if I’d thought THAT was a possibility. You shouldn’t have had to deal with that.” 

“Honestly, I’m just glad Tim was there,” Sasha offers. “Just think what might have happened if you’d been at home, all alone.” 

Tim feels a little queasy. 

“What DID happen?” Martin asks. “Have they figured it out yet? Not that--of course, you don’t have to tell us, if you’d rather keep it private! We’re just worried.” 

Jon sighs. “Well, their thinking is that it was a one-off episode,” he prefaces, pausing for long enough that Tim feels pressured to say something. 

“That’s good.” 

Jon nods. “It, erm, my mind seemed to clear considerably as soon as I was given pain medication. So, while they’re still running a few more tests, they think it’s some combination of pain, the beginnings of an infection, and the… added stress, I suppose, we’ve been under as of late. All of it combined, I haven’t really been eating or sleeping.” 

“Infection?” Sasha asks, ignoring the two pieces of the story that Tim had personally found much more confusing. 

“Yes, in my leg. The worm scars. It was caught early, so another round of antibiotics should clear it up, but it played no small part in the delirium, apparently.” 

“Pain,” Tim says. “From what? The infection?” 

“Some of it,” Jon admits. “But most is just… remnants. It never really went away after Prentiss’ attack on the Institute. I kept thinking it would get better, but it just hasn’t. It’s still every bit as bad as when it first happened. They’re, erm, looking into nerve damage as a possibility.” 

Tim’s heart hurts. The deepest of his own scars still ache, sometimes, if he sits in certain positions for too long or takes the stairs too many times in a day, but the worst of the pain (and God, had it been bad) had dissipated by the time the opioid prescription he’d been given from the hospital had worn off. 

Jon had been given the same prescription. He hadn’t sought a renewal, even when Tim had suggested he do so after watching him hobble to the break room and nearly collapse, halfway to tears, just from the short walk. 

No wonder he hadn’t been going home. He’s still an idiot; no doubt about that, so Tim regrets only the harsher words he’d used when he’d found Jon, multiple times, sleeping at his desk. 

“Christ,” Martin breathes. “That’s awful. I’m so--so sorry. But I’m glad you’re feeling better—”

“Why the hell do you always have to wait until things are so bad to do anything about it?” Tim demands, so abruptly that Jon jumps. 

“I--I didn’t—”

“The whole suffering in silence thing is very on-brand for you, and it’s not a good look. It doesn’t just affect you, you know. When you wait until it’s this bad, you just end up dragging everyone else into the thick of it, but you’re the only one privy to how we got there in the first place.” 

Of course, Jon takes it.

“You’re right.”

Tim scoffs. “Usually am.” 

Jon tests out a little half-smile, which Tim allows. “Don’t push it.” 

After a long pause, Sasha shifts from foot to foot. “Have they told you when you’re getting out of here?” 

“Soon,” Jon reassures. “I really appreciate you stopping by. You didn’t have to.” 

Tim sits himself down in the chair next to Jon and puts his feet up on the bed. “I’ll wait up, take you to your flat when you’re released. You two okay to get a cab?” 

Sasha and Martin nod, saying their goodbyes and shuffling out the door before Jon has a chance to fight with Tim about the ride home. 

In the end, all Jon says is, “thank you,” and Tim likes that much better. 


End file.
